


Dandies In The Underworld

by fiertedubearn



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Play, Crossdressing, Drugs, Flagging, Gen, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Character Death, Porn with Feelings, Road Trips, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiertedubearn/pseuds/fiertedubearn
Summary: "Dandies in the Underworld: untold stories from the history of The Inseparables, 1969-1979"(or, putting a television show, a novel, and a purposefully vague chunk of mid-to-late 20th century western culture in a blender, and seeing what happens.)





	1. Cocaine, Brown Sugar, White Rabbit, Whatever

**Author's Note:**

> EUROPEAN SONS 12"  
> (KINGS RECORDS '71)
> 
> Oliver 'Athos' Delafère: Lead Vocals and Bass  
> Baron Porthos Vallons: Drums  
> René 'Aramis' Herblay: Guitars and Vocals
> 
> Special thanks to Charles D'Artagnan
> 
> Produced by J. Treville

The speakers on the floor below feel like they’re pressed against the plaster, molasses-bass vibrating under his skin. Athos, who hasn’t made it to the armchair, rolls onto his back on the carpet and grimaces. The rug is faux-fur of a particularly abrasive shade of purple, sticky on the back of his neck, stinking of plastic and whiskey and shoe leather. He tips his head back to look at the ceiling and immediately regrets it, the unpleasant crunch of broken glass in hair too sharp for his senses. He crawls onto his knees and elbows, tries to pull the glass out. Cuts his palm to shreds but doesn’t feel anything, tastes it when his nose bleeds. 

“That’s fucked up,” says a voice he doesn’t quite recognise, a girl, followed by a hard laugh that makes his jaw clench. “Hey- hey, Chuck. You should do something about this, maybe.” Short, brittle scrapes,  _ tap tap tap _ , someone rolling paper so loudly it might as well be a brown paper bag being crumpled around his skull, another hard laugh. His teeth grind, mouth a tight shut line. Athos opens his eyes again, no longer looking at the hideous floor, and stares across the coffee table. Past the graveyard of empties and an overflowing ashtray, a man in a red leather jacket cuts more white lines on a mirror for a girl he’s sure he’s met but doesn’t remember how.

 

“I mean it, Chuck. Your guy’s lookin’ real bad.” The man in the jacket this time, not the girl, who is currently preoccupied. Athos can’t see his face, wipes his nose dry on his sleeve, white powder caking in the cloth, goes to rub his eyes- someone grabs his wrist. Oh, right. Glass, blood. Bad idea. His face is made of blood and snot and tears, like the whole thing’s just going to melt away off his shoulders and onto the ugly carpet. Might make the colour a little less offensive, he thinks, as he’s dragged away from the table, distracted by the mean laughs and the jarring stop-start groan of the record being changed downstairs. There’s a short argument between three, maybe four people, then blessed almost-silence when a door closes. His heart is hammering in his chest. The floor is tiled, cold, surprisingly clean; doesn’t stick to his clothes when he sits up and leans back against the wall.

“Athos,” says a voice far more familiar, from somewhere beyond a blanket of hair and grit and slime. “Hey, look at me.  _ Athos _ .” 

“Charlie.” It sounds fine in his head but comes out as a swollen wet grunt.

“God damnit,” says Charlie, tired and impatient. Athos feels bad about it, probably. “Stay here, don’t move. Don’t  _ touch _ anything.” The door opens and shuts again, the brief wave of noise feels like a punch in the throat. There’s more yelling, loud enough to hear through the wall. Something breaks, more voices, like a bar fight underwater. He drops his head forward, hopes gravity will pull the muck from his face. (It doesn’t.)

 

Rush of noise, too much noise, then- not  _ nothing _ , but breathing, a long sigh of disappointment. His jaw is wired shut and everything tastes like gin and bile and blood and he wants to puke until he’s inside out. 

“Fucking hell, mate. We leave you alone for five minutes.” A low rumble from somewhere too high up to look.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“No, no, Charlie, not you. Don’t worry. You’re not his maid, no matter how he acts about it. This is entirely his own fault.” Another sigh. “Now I’ve said that- run the taps for me, will you?” Athos opens one bleary eye and sees a pair of boots between his legs, scuffed brown leather against pink tile. The body attached to the boots moves and a pair of long, steady hands cup his face. “So nice of you to join us at last.” The words come clean and sharp, cutting through the swamp. Chin tilted up, light too bright, he squints, opens both eyes cautiously; tries to make a sound of acknowledgement and fails miserably.

“Is he-” 

“He’s fine. Can’t get worse, at any rate.” A thoughtful pause. “S’pose he  _ could _ die.”

“You’re  _ not _ helping, Porthos.”

“Sorry.” Weight shifts, leather creaks. Still a voice like thunder, but closer. Sitting down now, maybe. “Hey, Charlie. Guy in the red. That’s who did it?”

“I... I think so? He was there when I came in.” Charlie- Charlie? 

 

Chuck, Charlie. Charlie D’Artagnan. Oh, right.

 

Charlie sounds on the verge of tears. Athos should definitely probably feel bad about all of this, but he’s slipping into the grout between the tiles and through the floorboards and it’s hard to care about much at all.

“All right.” A gentle slap to the cheek pours him back into a people-shape. “Athos, look up at me. Come on, that’s it. Right here. Look up.” The hands attached to the boots and the rest of the body start to tremble, boots squeak on the tile. The body kneels between his thighs and takes a deep breath. “Hey, hey, hey. Athos.  _ Athos _ .” Another slap, harder, less patient. “ _ Ollie _ .” 

 

Athos,  _ Ollie _ , blinks slowly into something close to focus, face still streaming- but looking, now. The nosebleed has dried on his lips and it cracks when he tries to open his mouth to speak again. 

“Aramis,” he sputters, and it doesn’t sound right in his head or catching on his dry tongue and sore teeth but there’s visible relief on Aramis’ face. Athos starts to feel a bit bad about all of this, his slurry body turning to thick, chalky clay. D’Artagnan and Porthos are talking quietly out of his range of vision and the words don’t make sense, a radio through treacle. Aramis cleans his face as best he can with a wet towel, mopping up the mess in a way Athos presumes must be gentle, but might just as well be getting scoured by a Brillo pad, and his eyes begin to brim over again with a low, wounded moan. 

“Shouldn’t he go to a hospital?” D’Artagnan, voice thinner, pale in the corner of his eye.

“And have him under arrest? We can’t miss the Palais tomorrow.” Aramis is facing away from him, and Athos gets the feeling he’s being spoken-about-and-not-to on purpose. “I can do this. Just keep him still.” Porthos grumbles in the affirmative and sits on the floor, moving Athos’ clunky ragdoll body until he seems content with the arrangement, locked in a firm cradle with his tenderised arm pushed outwards. Athos bleats out a messy sob, tendons straining even in compliance. “Pass me that case up on the sink.” 

"I- what case?"

"Blue, leather, zip. Hurry. Tweezers, th- actually, just empty it out over here." Aramis shrugs down floor-wards with one shoulder. Athos blinks his tears back and everything tastes like salt and batteries, burning the cracks in his face. Porthos tips Athos' head up, and he imagines it's gentle, but every hair on his head that resists the movement feels like it's being torn out. "This'll hurt." D'Artagnan's face is pale, swimming right up close. There's a clatter- small, sharp, painful scrapes. Quiet sigh. "Charlie, uh. Distract him." 

"I don't-"

Drowned out, then, by a punishing howl, too-cold metal and a hundred-thousand needles ripped from his hand. A quiet voice, Aramis, "figure it out." 


	2. Midnight Train From Gascogne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THREE GIFTS 10"  
> (KINGS RECORDS '61)
> 
> Words and Music by Alexander D'Artagnan

Charles D’Artagnan, whose late father Alexander had been known best as a folk musician, had stormed into the office of Kings Records only some few hours before. (That said, had you asked the receptionist, it would have felt considerably more like several days.) Jaw set, red-eyed and white knuckled from the moment he opened the door, D’Artagnan demanded compensation, royalties posthumously owed, from Kings Records; his father had died penniless despite having made a name for himself on their label. Charlie settled, though after many heavy threats of being escorted from the premises by large men in leather jackets, into a chair in a smoky foyer, facing a door marked ‘J. Treville, Manager, Kings Records’. Treville’s time was hard to buy and harder to borrow, but a potential lawsuit from the estate of— well, that caught his attention.  


Kings Records’ office was a snug affair on the fifth floor of an unassuming building downtown. Comprising of a pleasantly gloomy, sparsely furnished antechamber plastered in flyers and framed gold records, and a couple of smaller rooms behind an old-fashioned reception desk, there wasn’t much to the place for D’Artagnan to sniff out. The receptionist- a secretary-looking type right down to the spectacles and saddle-shoes, who’d given her name over the telephone to another client as Bonnie (or was it Connie?), and had little time for D’Artagnan’s temper- kept a stern eye on him from behind the varnished hardwood counter until Treville opened his door.

 

Admittedly, the boy didn’t look much like his father, aside from a pair of long, skinny legs. He sat sentinel-like in the lobby chair in a dark wool coat that was far too broad across the shoulders, one foot tapping anxiously on the musty carpet, arms folded tight across his chest. (He must’ve inherited the coat not all that long ago.)

“I hear there’s been a mistake, Mister...” Upon closer inspection, he had the same hard brow as Alexander. The boy- barely twenty, he figured- turned and stood up to face him, began to introduce himself as Charlie, and then Charles, D’Artagnan, reached out a cramped hand to shake Treville’s. “I heard Alex had a kid. Never thought they’d show up at my door, though.”

“You knew my dad?” His voice was thin, watery. Hadn’t slept in a while, maybe.

“Served in the National Guard, same regiment. Funny, never took him for a singer.”

“Clearly.” Charles still had him in a firm grip. “Excuse me, Mr. Treville, sir-”

“Listen, Charlie-”

“Mr. Treville, please, hear me out.” The boy took a shallow breath. Treville’s patience was waning, and his hand was starting to hurt. D’Artagnan reached inside his coat, finally releasing his vise-grip to do so, and presented a ten-inch vinyl record in a scuffed sleeve. Treville turned it over in his hands, squinting at the cardboard in the gloom of the foyer.

“Come into my office for a minute.”

 

“I know what's happened here.” Leaning over his desk to switch on the lamp, Treville gave the record a closer inspection. He pointed at a small brick of print on the back of the sleeve. “This isn’t Kings Records. Not any more, anyway.” Charlie’s brow set into a tight frown.

“I don’t understand. It says it right there-"

“Listen, for a minute. There used to be a Kings Records, back before this one. They were all set up somewhere in the south, I think. Blues, country, folk music. When they folded, we took the name, but that's all.  Not really our style, but we would've taken on the acts, too, if we could. They'd all moved on by the time the ship sank.” Treville pinched his brow and sighed. “Your dad didn't know, or he didn't mention it, I'm guessing." D’Artagnan shrugged loosely, too tired to be angry any more.

"You know what kind of music we put out here?"

"No."

"You listen to much on the radio?"

"Don't know."

"Heard of The Inseparables?" Treville cocked his head back to a framed black-and-white poster behind his desk; three men, loitering around a building stoop. The closest was pale, moody, shaggy-haired, mostly obscured by a thick scarf and long coat; impassive, blocky sunglasses hid what little else was exposed of his face. Across from him, leaning on the bannister, a taller, darker skinned, neater silhouette in a high-collared leather jacket, intricate silk scarf, an embroidered blouse and long, tight jeans. Behind them both, sprawled with a grin on the top step like an aggressively bohemian panther, another figure in a striped t-shirt, corduroys and winkle-pickers.

"Maybe."

"Right." Treville sat back in his chair, reached out to his telephone. “How about this, they’re playing City Hall tonight. I’ll get you tickets. I know it's not much, but."

"Uh. Thank you, Mr. Treville, sir.” D’Artagnan slipped the record back into his coat, visibly defeated. Treville called through to his secretary and made the necessary arrangements, though the boy barely heard a word of it, drifting off in the opposite seat. He honestly felt bad for the kid, and let him sleep in the office until it was time to leave. 


	3. Young Dudes, Killer Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTRIGUES 7"  
> (KINGS RECORDS '71)
> 
> Oliver 'Athos' Delafère: Lead Vocals and Bass  
> Baron Porthos Vallons: Drums  
> René 'Aramis' Herblay: Guitars and Vocals  
> Charles D'Artagnan: Vocals and Misc. Personnel
> 
> Produced by J. Treville

There’s a dull, incessant buzz in Oliver’s skull, and it’s far too early to deal with it in a reasonable fashion. Groaning into the mattress, he pulls the pillow tighter over his face, wondering if he could actually suffocate himself. (the thought honestly wasn’t that unwelcome.) the tinny grating persists, so he’s awake now (much to his disappointment); and it’s still dark out, a haze blue-brown from smog and light pollution. A grey cat crosses the road outside, but he supposes at night all cats are grey.

 

The buzzing, he realises, as he’s disentangling himself from the bedsheets, is the doorbell.

 

“Fuck’s sake,” Ollie grumbles into the dark. Along with never checking his mailbox, he’d made a point of tampering with the wires in the building’s foyer so nobody could call on him. (Begrudgingly, he’d agreed to keep his telephone plugged into the wall socket- Treville had pleaded and bargained and swore to only call in emergencies, like a death or a paycheque.) As he stumbles across the floor of the little apartment, Ollie considers breaking the entire box, or somehow paying off the superintendent to take off his button, or just moving house entirely and not telling anyone.

 

By the time Oliver reaches the door, the buzzer droning has slowed down to an occasional sad bleat, maybe he could get away with not answering it at all. It’s probably a ‘long-lost relative’, overly ambitious groupie, or a dealer he’d forgotten to pay, and none of the options seem worth the trouble. Still, he’s awake now, albeit a sore and monstrously hungover wakefulness. Slinging on a well-loved silk robe and an ugly pair of loafers - neither of which he has any recollection of ever having bought - he pushes the release for the foyer door, but doesn’t unlatch the lock on his own until the clacking of shoe-heels up the iron staircase halts. (The chain is still in place, naturally.) Opening the door by a scant few inches, Oliver squints out into the dusky hallway.

“Athos, I’m so sorry for this, you’re the closest and-”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, I had to get off the street and you lived the nearest by.”

“I live the… what? I’m sorry, should I…. do I know you?”

 

A pause, slightly longer than is comfortable. Oliver blinks, once.

 

“.....Charlie?”

(It has to be mentioned that The Inseparables showing up at all hours wasn’t too unusual. Though it was true that Oliver Delafère mostly kept to himself in his shoebox off the avenue, late night party crashing at René or Baron’s happened on the regular. Charlie was renting the attic of a short-tempered tailor, and guests were not an option. It made him feel a little guilty, always inviting himself over and never reciprocating, but Charlie wondered if the other three by themselves would even fit in the room.)

 

“I just, I can’t go home like this, and,” Charlie peers over his shoulder, checking that the foyer door had closed behind him, “there’s cars all over, cop cars, even at this hour, and-”

“Just. Come inside already.” Oliver drops the chain but keeps close to the doorframe, gives Charlie just enough room to sneak around it, locks it back up with mechanical precision (even with the hangover and a stiff, bruised shoulder). Charlie’s fever-damp, heat pouring from his skinny limbs as he shuffles past.

 

Another pause. Far too long, this time.

 

“Charlie.”

“I can explain.”

“You can explain.” Oliver rubs his face roughly with his hand, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Explain why you’re at my door at,” he fumbles for the light switch, cocks his head towards the little clock over the stovetop, “four in the morning, dressed... like…”

 

He turns back to look at Charlie and the words stop coming, caught on the tip of his tongue and just behind his teeth.

 

Charlie D’Artagnan looks altogether too big and too small at the same time, hunching over against the door. The wool coat, whose tumbling silhouette had come to mean D’Artagnan was in the room, is not hanging off his shoulders, replaced instead by a snug and shiny leather jacket that strains at the seams; a velvet dress shorter than Oliver’s robe under it. (The same battered cowboy-type boots, though, which Ollie had always presumed were another inheritance, along with the wool coat, as neither fitted D’Artagnan particularly well.)

 

Charlie pushes his hair, shaggy and curly-stuck with sweat, back from his face, and tries to catch Athos’ attention with some difficulty.

“I went to a party,” he starts, nervous under the avoidant not-stare. “I got invited, the other night.” He bites his lip, looks at the floor. “It was just. Just a fun, stupid party. But then someone called the police and we had to leave before, you know.” He tries to shrug into the jacket the same way he’d shrug into his enormous, shapeless coat but it doesn’t work, and the leather squeaks in retaliation. Athos just nods, still not looking at him; he pulls his robe around himself a little tighter, runs a hand through his hair. It catches sharply on tangles and knots and he’s either far too hungover or not drunk enough to deal with this entire situation.

“I’m really sorry,” Charlie mumbles, quietly terrified that Athos is never going to look him in the eye ever again.

“I’m going to make some coffee,” replies Athos, plainly.

 

Dawn stirs at the horizon while the percolator hisses softly on the stovetop. Charlie’s still leaning against the door, Oliver with his back to him as he washes a pair of chipped mugs in the sink, still bleary eyed. He stares down at the mica countertop, knows he should say something. Rinses the cups three times more than is necessary just to keep his hands busy. He knows exactly where D’Artagnan’s been, why someone called the cops.

 

There’s a reason he lives this side of the city.

 

_Say something, Ollie._

 

“So.” Pauses. Swallows. Turns around, hand shaky on the coffee-pot (and he would blame it on the liquor, or lack thereof, if there’d been anyone there to ask). “What’s your name, then?”

“What?”

“Did you come up with a name?” he asks, softer; pours the coffee, pushes one cup across the little bench, takes a sip too soon and burns his tongue. _Fuck’s sake._

Charlie loosens up a little, stands a little taller, takes a tentative step forward. Oliver sits down on a creaky stool and looks not-quite at the door, pushes the cup a little further over.

“It’s, um.” He goes to perch opposite, on a chair that looks like it was stolen from the _Swiss Family Robinson_ , and the dress hikes up. Flinch, pause. “It’s ‘Kitty’.” Athos blinks, once, behind his coffee, finally looks up; then down, down, up, down. Settles his gaze at navel-height.

“Hello, Kitty.”


	4. L'Hotel Californie (Side A)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (in two parts, because it is taking a very long time to write, because... because.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L'HOTEL CALIFORNIE 7"  
> (KINGS RECORDS '70)
> 
> René 'Aramis' Herblay: Guitar and Vocals  
> Baron Porthos Vallons: Percussion
> 
> Produced by J. Treville

L’Hôtel Californie was an illusion of smoke and mirrors. Most hours of the day you could walk past four or five times without realising. A solemn, weathered little red-brick building, with a plain black-brown door; one grated window with heavy brown curtains that looked like they were made from pre-war blankets, another papered in last decade’s headlines. No sign hung over the threshold, no mail slot marked an owner. In winter, the place looked especially dreary. But at night--  _ oh _ ,  _ at night _ .

 

René--who absolutely made a point of being René at the  _ Californie _ , and not what he may perhaps be better known as-- took one last perfunctory glance at the street before tapping on the door, cocked his head to one side with a smile when it opened. A thin ribbon of vapour wove past him as he stepped inside, and he tipped his hat politely before taking it off. The carpet underfoot was musty, a little worn in spots, but thick enough to muffle footfall. René unbuttoned his coat, no longer out in the February chill. Behind the doorman (a quiet and unassuming older gentleman whom he knew only as ‘Baz N.’) was another, smaller opening, draped with the same unremarkable brown sheets, a soft rumble of sound slipping through the peep-holes where the curtain lip barely missed the floor. 

 

It always made him think of a book he’d read once, pushing back that weighted veil and finding oneself in place quite unlike the one before it; but the snow-capped lamp-posts lay on the other side of the divide. In here, tucked away from the wide open world, reigned the silks and furs.

 

More of a lounge than a hall, what the  _ Californie _ lacked in size it made up for in character, and by all means in characters. René made his way over to the bar, already too hot in his jacket by the time he’d crossed the room; settled in what was more or less his usual spot, a stool on the corner of the dark, sticky counter, and ordered what was more or less his usual poison (a tequila sunrise which was considerably more tequila than sunrise). A carefully curated crate of motown vinyl sat next to the turntable at the back of the lounge, and while René himself preferred a more east-coast sound he was content enough to sit back and people-watch while he waited.

 

The thing that happens, as it always happens, is ridiculous, and he knows it’s ridiculous, but. It’s a dance, a courtship. René likes to dance. Vallons, on the other hand, he just likes a show.

 

Vallons, as in Baron Vallons; as in somehow managing to avoid being called ‘Baz V.’, as in Baron  _ Porthos _ Vallons, or so he would cheerfully tell you after only a couple of beers. René felt he was inviting trouble with his sincerity, but also doubted anyone would actually try and confront Baron- while he was perfectly pleasant to be around, he could look surly and antagonistic in the blink of an eye. 

 

Baron showed up later than usual, and while René had been taking care to nurse his drinks he was halfway through his third by the time their little dance was ready to begin. A tall, beautiful young man with dark skin and high cheekbones walked over to Baron before he’d even properly come into the room, and the music and chatter made it impossible to hear their small-talk, though René could sense the spark of challenge between them. 

 

“I don’t understand,” said the tall, beautiful young man, “why you’re always doing this.”

“What is it you need to understand?” replied Vallons, folding his arms. “I don’t see how it’s your business, honestly.”

“ _ Baron _ .”

“ _ Charon _ .” His tone was teasing, airy, but his face set hard. “You don’t-”

“I don’t  _ what _ ,” Charon interrupted, squaring his jaw.

“You don’t get to have a say in this.” Baron reached out and put a hand firmly on the other man’s shoulder, gently pushed him back. Charon stood his ground.

“You owe me, you know.”

“Since when? We’re not kids anymore.”

“And you wouldn’t’ve gotten that far without me.” All of Charon St. Denis was hard, sharp edges, even the cut of his suit, and perhaps for good reason; but it made trying to have a conversation with him difficult, and Baron just wanted a night out. He sighed, stifling a grunt of annoyance, and caught Charon’s chin gently in his hand. 

“I really don’t want to do this now,” he said softly, brushed his thumb over Charon’s bottom lip. “I’m not fighting with you here. I’ll come see you. But I’m busy right now, yeah?”

“Fine.” Charon shrugged himself free, turned his head away. “You come and see me. Have a nice night.”

 

René was bored, and drunk, and losing his patience because of it. Tonight, the dance could wait. He pushed his stool back so it made an irritated squeak, left his half-empty glass and stalked across the dancefloor until he could catch Baron by himself.

“Huh, hello,” Baron murmured, a little surprised by René’s assertion, right up in his face instead of his usual coquettish lurking. René snatched the front of Baron’s shirt (which was actually one of René’s) and pulled. “Bit forward for you, isn’t this?”

“Thought I might miss my shot for once.”

“Wh- oh, because of-” René licked a wide, hot stripe up Baron’s throat, and Vallons half-heartedly tried to fend him off, “-it’s not-”

“Don’t care what it is or isn’t,” mouth pressed to Baron’s ear, “just come home with me, right now, please.”

 

René’s place is uptown, and the walk there is quiet. They don’t touch, even in the cold. Baron chuffed air into his collar, hands tucked tight in jacket pockets. They take the shortcut through the church grounds; sneak through the cloisters to the lamplit garden, use the placarded bench to hop over the wall. René toppled over the edge, graceless, landed on the floor in an unruly heap.

“That looked like it hurt.” Baron grinned, reached down with one arm and pulled René back to his feet in a single, athletic gesture.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Didn’t feel a thing.” The shadow of the church-steeple barely made it into the back-alley, faint blue lines of the cross skirting over René’s jaw as he stood, a little wobbly on his feet. “Let’s go inside, though, mhm? Yep. Inside.” René fumbled with the keys for the back door, Baron’s hands steadying his hips, laugh low and hot on the back of his neck. The door opened with an unhappy  _ clunk _ .

 

“Let’s see what we were planning tonight,” René mused as he fell back onto the bed; coats discarded, lamplight throwing rosy shadows into the corners of the room; he kicked off his boots, propped himself up on his elbows, legs lazily spread and dangling off the edge of the mattress. Baron folded his arms and smirked.  

“Oh, it’s going to be that easy, is it?” He leaned into the gap between René’s knees, cocked his head to one side. “Mm, no. Still need to work for it.” Nudged his thighs wide apart, hands flat against the rumpled bed-sheets. René bit his lip, arched up into the warm hollow spot between them; and Baron inched back, never quite touching. It forced a quiet, annoyed grumble out of his dear little man and it made him laugh, sweet and teasing.

“All right. I’ll be good.”

“You say that.”

“And I will be.” 

 

The thing that happens, thought not as it always happens, is this.


	5. L'Hotel Californie (Side B)

Baron sat back on his heels, arms loose at his sides.

“Go on, I’ll even let you start,” he murmured. René reached up and around and tried to grab hold of the belt slung low around Baron’s waist, buried his nose in the soft, worn cotton (which, the way it smelled, may as well have never belonged to him). Baron gave him a half-moment of victory before pushing him down, hands heavy on hips, ribs, chest, palms moving rough and slow towards his neck. René huffed and rolled his arms out, found himself caught loosely around the elbow on the left; and a dismally painful spot in the right tricep that made his eyes water, mouth bitter.

 

Baron clicked his tongue, musing, pressed his thumb experimentally into the tangle of nerves- just hard enough to make René writhe, whine; and then all but let go. Guided his man’s movements with the gentlest touch, arms held above his head, both wrists in one hand and pressed into the blankets.

 

Not one to be beaten so easily, René tried to wriggle free (however, to no avail). He dragged one foot free of its sock and tried to kick out, or at least wedge his toes in somewhere disarming, and landed a small, futile blow against Baron’s hip with his heel; tried instead to wrap his leg around Baron’s waist- pull him down, knock him off balance. René’s sloppy when he’s drunk, and-

 

-and Baron Porthos Vallons is twice his size, probably, looming above as a magnificent predator, bronze in the fuzzy ambient glow that warmed the room, an Adonis and Eros all at once, and-

 

-and, Baron picked his shirt buttons undone with his free hand, walked his fingertips down his sternum; skimmed a circle around his navel, let his nail scrape through the scant hairs that slipped under his waistband. René breathed out a laugh, twitching from the tickle. He swung his leg around again, knee tight against Baron’s waist, and caught his prize between his toes. Closed his eyes and licked his lower lip in concentration. Baron nipped affectionately at René’s throat, mumbled in a syrupy purr, “ _guess_.”

 

René swallowed, feeling the sharp-damp of Baron’s teeth against his larynx; rolled his ankle, wiggled his toes, making sure not to drop the bounty.

 

Not cotton- not the worn softness of quietly shared clothes, nor the heavy, pressed linen of a flag. That narrowed it down considerably, at least. No static-stick of synthetics or chamois, no lace or ornament, no weave that would give away pattern… _oh_.

“Velvet,” he said quietly, testing the word out; not quite statement or question in its tone. Baron eased his grip, without letting go of René’s wrists; his knuckles cracked gently with the movement, his free hand tracing idly back and forth along a pocket seam. Nose tucked into messy brown hair, he made a warm, agreeable noise against René’s jaw. René grinned victoriously, bit the corner of his lip as squinted one eye open to try and sneak a look over the broad, solid arch of Baron’s body.

“ _Ah-ah_ , no cheating.” Baron hefted fully on top of René, all but blocking out the lamplight, a soft-focus corona lighting the tips of his curls, the far edges of skin-planes. He ghosted a kiss over his brow. “Thought you said you’d be good,” playfully scolding.

“And you believed me?”

“Fair point,” or he may as well have said, with his customary frown-twitch of agreement, and leaned in harder with his thighs. René stifled a groan, laughed it off; tipped his head back to try and catch a kiss (which Baron humoured, naturally), rolled his hips up in sympatico. (which Baron was not expecting, and he let out a short, hot breath).

 

“All right, all right… velvet...” René tensed, uncoiled, snake-like, crushed and resplendent in the crawlspace between the sheets and Baron’s weight.

“One or the other. Not that hard.” He bit back a smile, dipped down in a long stretch, huffed at a cut of exposed pelvic meat.

“Fuck off, ‘ _not that hard_ ’,” René grumbled, grinding with as much leverage as he could muster. Baron bit his hip, enough to bruise; “Okay! Okay, okay, _oh_ -,” hooked his fingers around a belt loop, kissed the welt better, slow, all tongue. “Black. _Black velvet_. Black velvet?” The words tumbled out too fast, too giddy, too light-headed.

“There you go,” Baron replied politely, letting go and sitting back on his heels again. René gasped, the sudden space and air-chill made him tremble.

“Black velvet,” he whispered, almost soundlessly. Mostly to himself, mostly like a benediction.

 

Baron plucked the cloth from where it hung over René’s ankle and ran it through his fingers with an air of contemplation. René watched quietly, arms still over his head even with nothing to keep them there. He planted his feet firmly back on the end of the bed, curled his toes into the blankets.

“Come here,” Baron said softly, sweetly. René sat up, ungainly, shrugging off his shirt as he rolled his shoulders. His arms were a little numb; he rubbed his forearms and wrists to wring out their dull complaints. Baron cupped his man’s face in both hands, nails grazing the hair behind his ears, jaw tilted up; and kissed him, tender and languid. René pawed uselessly at Baron’s chest, trying to gain purchase on fabric with weak hands, the thin cotton slipping from his clumsy grasp. “Settle, now.” Baron took up both ends of the velvet sash and slung an arm over René’s shoulder, not quite touching; pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, both hands behind René’s head. Pulled gently, tied a simple, solid knot; let go and moved off the bed. René grinned.

“‘ _How about we try it blindfold_ ,’ eh? Surprised you even remember that.”

“Why would I forget that?”

“It was your birthday. D’you remember where you woke up the next morning?” No reply. “I’m judging by your silence that you’ve conceded my point?” He reached forward with one hand tentatively and caught hold of nothing but air. “Baron,” sitting up on his knees a little, “what are you doing?” Soft sounds he couldn’t decipher, just out of reach. “Baron? _Baron Porthos Vallons_.”

 

“Didn’t mean to leave you hanging so long, had to get a thing.”

“A _thing_.” Vallons made a soft affirmative noise from somewhere towards the window.

“Well, I shan’t be going anywhere now,” he said, crawling behind René, kissing the crown of his head, tousled and sticking out of the sash in aborted curves; continued cheerfully, “and neither will you. I mean, if that’s all right, yeah?” and he took René’s hands in his own, guiding them behind his back with care.

“That’s definitely all right.” René gave his hands a gentle squeeze, head tipped back to one side, smile a little lop-sided. Baron mouthed at René’s exposed shoulder, threatened bites along the cord of strained muscle down his neck- but never hard enough to leave more than a pale mark, a small and temporary dent in his skin. He sketched his fingertips along the ridge of Rene’s belt, traced the warm edges of a once-shiny gold buckle now faded, buffed down to a bronze; the die-cast fleur-de-lis worn away to little more than a light relief. Baron slipped the clasp open, one-handed, with ease, popped the button on his jeans, and pulled it out of its loops in a slow, even movement. René squirmed, hips twitching forward; Baron dropped the belt between René’s thighs and cupped the crotch of his pants, fingers spread wide, to push him back again.

 

Baron hid a small smile in the nape of René’s neck and retrieved the leather strap. He rested his forehead in the little hollow of dusky shoulder-blades and, with deliberately slow precision, tied René’s hands behind his back. He gave the surplus length an experimental tug, and René struggled to keep his balance, limbs tight; Baron sat back and lifted it up above his head, and watched with satisfaction when René tipped forward with a gasp, face first into the mattress. René snorted quietly and angled his head as if he were looking over his shoulder.

“You comfortable down there?” Baron asked, a quiet rumble of laughter flavouring his words. He ran his fingers through the mess of hair that half-covered René’s face, pushed back so he could breathe more easily; stroked his cheek fondly as he tucked stray curls behind his ear.

“Close enough,” René replied, mostly into the blanket, but with an earnest smile; he wiggled his fingers as testament.

“All right, then.” Baron kissed the upturned palm of René’s hand and hooked both thumbs into the back of his jeans. Bearing down with a gymnast’s grace, he pulled René’s pants to his knees. “Are these new?” He gave René’s briefs a small, playful snap.

“What, were you expecting a filthy jockstrap?”

“Wasn’t expecting anything at all, to be honest.”

“It’s chilly out!”

“Fair enough.” With a little more consideration, he eased them down. René shivered from the cold and his breath bloomed as he parted his lips to sigh. A trickle of condensation ran down the window-pane, a single sluice of nighttime blue in a square of golden steam.

 

Baron’s hands were warm on René’s chill-pricked skin. He took as much pleasure from whisper-touching with the the blunt sides of his fingernails as he did from percussion (or dealing out a thorough beating in a street fight when necessary). They were rough all over from scar and callus alike; large but dexterous, firm yet gentle. René, who generally took very good care of himself, would sit cross-legged next to Baron every night, in their little backstage lounges after they played; take a generous two-fingered scoop of Vaseline and rub it into each ridge and split he came across until he was satisfied with his work.

 

Baron took a generous two-fingered scoop of Vaseline and ran it from cleft to taint.

 

A quick fuck was great in the same way, maybe, that eggs over easy at three in the morning were great; readily available and reasonably satisfying. That night, Baron had decided, would be more like a banquet. He pushed René’s thighs further apart with his knees. René made a long, shaky breath and sighed it back out.

“It’s cold,” René mumbled, blushing a little out of embarrassment and a lot out of impatient lust.

“You’ll warm up,” Baron teased, the flat of his palm wedged in the crease of René’s ass, twisted his wrist to rub too-slow circles with the barest touch of his fingertips. René made an undignified grunt into the sheets and tried to push back into it but was halted by a quick, sharp slap to the backside. “ _Settle_.” René groaned quietly and stilled himself as best he could; Baron smoothed over the new mark as if he were tending to a skinned knee. “There’s a good boy,” he cooed, and worked a greased finger into him to the first knuckle with little difficulty. René was half-hard already, resisting the urge to move, toes pointed, calves tense. Baron felt René strain to pull him in past the second knuckle and crooked it, free hand stroking aimlessly over his hip and thigh, squeezing the hard muscle in a gesture that sought to coax calmness. “That’s it.”

 

René Herblay considered himself a patient man. He handled Oliver’s sickness and injuries and hangovers with all the diligence of a ward matron; he would sit for hours and teach the eager D’Artagnan kid each song, embellishing it into two parts, note for note. But René Herblay was still a living, breathing human being, with, you know. Needs.

“Dear,” René gritted out, fists clenching behind his back, “dearest monsieur, _please_.”

“Please...?” Dearest Monsieur Vallons began to pull out.

“Can you please, just-” The question dissolved into a halted noise as Baron casually began finger-fucking him in perfect time with his heartbeat. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he moaned into the mattress, “please. Please please _please_ fuck me, Baron, please. _Baron_ .” Baron laughed under his breath, slowed his pace and eased in a second slick digit. René writhed in agony, aching to push back, grind into the bed, _anything_. Beyond the fog of cloth and hair and the blood thrumming in his head, he heard shuffle-slide of a zipper coming undone and let out a small sigh of relief. (He would chide himself for being so desperate, later, but there and then? It could wait.) Baron was still working him over in steady tempo, throwing in a backbeat at random; a half-thrust of fingers, a twist of muscle. René was strung out with longing, hard against his own belly.

 

Baron withdrew, gave the belt a gentle tug, and René fell to one side in a messy sprawl with a yelp. The sudden emptiness made him clench, keen back into a phantom limb. A hand, dry but for a thin sheen of sweat, took him by the back of the neck and turned him about; he couldn’t guess which way, and didn’t really care. He went to ask nonetheless, and was met by Baron’s cock, hot and heavy and grazing his lower lip.

“Beautiful,” said Baron, his veneration barely above a whisper. René let the tip of his tongue slip out and revelled in the taste; salt-sour like gin and bitters, heady like a southwest summer evening. René leaned back into Baron’s touch, thumb leisurely stroking the damp hairs at the nape of his neck. It lulled the tension in his body as if he were an animal being scruffed; his mouth fell open, jaw slack, tongue lolled. Baron pressed a small, open kiss to the flushed little wedge of bare skin between René’s hairline and the velvet blindfold; licked the corner of his lip as he parted and tasted tequila and sweat, and guided his cock into René’s mouth.

 

René swallowed and groaned, savouring the weight inch by inch; Baron’s grip held him in place until he gagged and was pulled back. He whined low in his throat and tried to lurch forward, now unrepentant in his need. Baron teased him, smearing spit and pre-come on René’s face, careful not to push the blindfold off when he grabbed a fistful of hair. René was all but propped up on Baron’s thigh; his knees chafed where his pants were bunched up around them, and the leather around his wrists scraped at the small of his back every time he moved. Baron fucked his mouth in long, lazy thrusts, the roll-snap of his hips meted out with great attention. He was mostly silent apart from the occasional satisfied grunt, content to lose himself in René’s service, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and trained in on the wet, sloppy sounds that fell out of his mouth regardless of whether it was or wasn’t full. René’s jaw ached, a raw blush running almost ear to ear from sweat and hair, spit and tears; still, he begged in wordless noises for more, to have his nose shoved against the dark whorls of hair in Baron’s crotch, mute a noisy sob. The velvet was soaked through and threatened to slip off his head. Blood pounded in his skull. Baron pulled back again and let go of René, who landed face down in the valley between Baron’s legs, drooling all over the inside of his thighs; he licked the palm of his own hand, and, rougher than he would ever be with anyone else, he jerked himself off tight-fisted and breathless. René tried to sit up again, hopelessly, and Baron came all over his face with a thunderous growl.

 

Baron dropped back against the cushions. He wiped his hands on his shirt and reached across the bed, René panting in his lap, chest heaving as he panted.

“Look at me,” Baron purred, all command even in a prone and breathless state. René felt he wouldn’t be able to move for hours, but managed to tilt his head up in the direction of Baron’s voice. “Good boy.” There was a tell-tale noise, a _click-whirr_ of a Polaroid camera; another two or three times after the first. Baron pushed the sodden velvet up into René’s hair with a weary hand and René opened his eyes, still bleary and shining with tears, lashes matted into dark spikes. “Let me,” and then he stopped and started again, “let me get your arms.” René rolled himself over weakly onto the sheets, face down, breathing slower, and his arms dropped numb at his sides when the leather knot was undone. With great effort, he crawled into the space under Baron’s arm and lay his head on his chest, too tired to try and clean himself up. He was still hard against Baron’s leg, prick twitching in protest of being left untouched; Baron offered to get him off with a gentle pawing at his hip, but he groaned out a soft, exhausted, “later,” and fell asleep.

 

Baron stayed awake long enough to take another photograph; of the mess of hair and limbs and bodily fluids tucked into his side, barely dressed and snoring quietly. He felt blindly for the pen he’d seen on the bedside table, and, biting the cap off with his teeth, wrote in the white box below each picture in a neat hand.

 

_ARAMIS_

_February 1970_

_B.P.V. x_


	6. Beginning To See The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LIVE FROM CITY HALL 12"  
> (KINGS RECORDS '70)
> 
> Oliver 'Athos' Delafère: Lead Vocals and Bass  
> Baron Porthos Vallons: Drums  
> René 'Aramis' Herblay: Guitars and Vocals

City Hall pours out onto the street, and Charles d’Artagnan shuffles against the tide, hands deep in his pockets. The wind is sharper in the city, even with the swell of a crowd around him, than he ever remembers it having been back home. The people here are different, too; he doesn’t know exactly why, but it’s almost a comfort. He pulls his big wool coat tighter around him as he makes his way up the steps to the entrance, checks his pockets again for the envelope that Treville had given him earlier. (Or, more rather, the receptionist had given him; she’d woken him up with a start, in an office he briefly thought he’d dreamed up. She- and he still wasn’t sure if her name was Connie or Bonnie- had been softer with him upon their second meeting, but he’d felt her wariness had been replaced with pity, and not a pity he was willing to indulge. Still, she’d been kinder than she’d necessarily needed to be, and had even given him directions to the venue.)

 

Charles presents the envelope at the kiosk. The attendant looks over him, and he feels like he’s being heavily judged, though he’s starting to feel like everyone in the city looks at him that way. He’s tired, and imagines he looks about as well as anyone who’d fallen asleep in a desk chair. The attendant hands back the contents of the envelope: the ticket with its stub removed, and a little blue card, an access pass signed by  _ J. Treville _ , now marked with a stamp. 

“Don’t lose that,” says the attendant, already tearing the next person’s ticket, “and probably don’t try and go back until after the set.” Charlie wanders through the vestibule and its handsome staircases and finds himself in the main forum; wooden floorboards sticky underfoot, the air thick with smoke. It makes his hair prickle from the sudden heat, and the fine threads of his coat itch against his skin. The stage at the end of the room is dark; red velvet curtains with gold trim that’d seen better days mostly cover it up, but there’s movement and dim lights swaying around in the shadows. As he walks through the loose throng of people, most of whom seem to know one another, he squints into the haze, watches figures pass back and forth. Before he knows it, he’s right up at the front, boots knocking against the front of the stage. It comes up to his stomach. 

 

He thinks about taking his coat off, but is frightened to lose it. There’s so little of his father left in his life, even less of his mother, and he clings to what he still owns of them, his heart still aching with loss. He’s barely an adult, but surely too old to be called an orphan. There’s nothing, no one, to keep him anywhere. It’s a whole new kind of loneliness. The hurt doesn’t get a chance to stick like a knife between his ribs this time- the house lights drop, the curtains are dragged away to the aisles. Plumes of cigarette smoke from the audience shiver and sprawl under the stage lamps. It’s only a little set-up; a few amps, a couple microphones a standard drumkit, electric guitar and bass, all on red-brown Persian rugs thrown down on the boards. Charles thinks back to the poster on Treville’s wall and wonders who plays what. The man in the leather jacket had seemed like the most handsome, or at least demanding of the most attention; surely he was the singer? He’s snapped out of his reverie by a low wave of cheer and the three men from the poster are suddenly in front of him, realer than real.

 

Tall-dark-and-handsome stays up the back and settles down behind the kit, which didn’t look small before; the bohemian picks up his guitar, and the shadow-man looms in front of him, in waxy jeans and a tight black sweater, smelling of whisky and wine from a foot away. He looks down at Charles, infinitely sad for a blink of an eye, replaces it with an half-smile. He has a scar through his lip that he licks before he opens his mouth to speak, stands close to the mic. Looks away from Charles to the back of the room.

“Good evening,” he murmurs, gazes down at a sort-of nothing but in the direction of the fretboard of his bass. “I’m Athos,” tilts his head sideways, “this is Aramis,” gestures backwards with one arm, “and that’s Porthos. We are The Inseparables.” 

 

It’s nothing like Charles has ever heard before. The noise turns his stomach, makes his blood burn; clutches his heart and pulls forward. It’s so  _ loud _ . Nothing like the gentle, bittersweet songs his father used to sing. Something darker, something needy. The guitar player- Aramis- has a cool, lilting tone in his voice that fits with the bass player’s growl the way a knife fits in one’s hand. The percussionist- Porthos, tall, dark and handsome- is effortless in his movement, and between songs he exchanges full and happy smiles with the dandy; meaningful little nods with the gloomy one.  _ Athos _ . It’s so hard to stop looking at him, in case he looks back again. They’re playing slow for a moment and Charles takes a breath for the first time in far too long, fills his lungs with hot air and smoke and sweat and he wants to cough until his eyes water from the strain. He sweats in his coat and his hair sticks to his face.

 

Athos crouches down and leans over until he’s inches away from Charles, stinking like a liquor cabinet with a fever. Without looking up, he says, “You’re the boy Treville sent, aren’t you.” He fiddles with the cables coming out of a stompbox. “Stay, when we’re done.” And then he’s back on his feet, as if the conversation, one-sided as it was, had never happened. Athos’ bass makes an unholy grinding-groaning sound when he steps on the pedal, the speakers rattle with feedback, the belly of the underworld roaring. It’s almost too much for Charles, who’s standing right in front of the speakers, but he can’t bring himself to move. As if Athos telling him to stay fixed him there like an enchantment, like a curse. Porthos’ beat is all crash and snare. Aramis’ guitar screams and warps, he drags his nails down the fretboard like it’s a chalkboard, a black angel’s death-song; and Athos starts singing a wounded litany that distorts and howls when his mouth’s too close to the mic. Charles is openly weeping, so overwhelmed by this- this  _ thing _ , like this is what music is  _ supposed _ to sound like. He wonders if this is what church feels like to the pious. What God sounds like to a prophet.

 

Charles only snaps out of it when the music stops. He dries his face roughly with the sleeve of his jacket and looks up at the stage, which is being cleared. Athos is gone, as are the other two; he feels for the access pass in his pocket with a shaky hand and grips it tight. There’s a huge, gruff looking man standing in front of a door near the side of the stage and he walks toward it, presents the little card while his mouth tries to make words. The security guard shrugs out of the way and lets him through before he can say anything; in front of him now is a short corridor with a few signs hanging off the walls, mostly in one piece. Charles’ ears are ringing but he can hear something at the end of the path, like furniture being moved around, voices in a conversation he can’t make out. The carpet is cleaner back here and his feet don’t stick as much. The room at the end of the hallway is warm and the speech-sounds are light, two people laughing about something or another. Charles turns the corner and knocks on the wall gently, swallows down his nerves. 

Aramis is smoking a joint and draped over Porthos, who’s reclining on an ugly armchair. The chatter stops immediately and Aramis looks at him with a sober, restrained smile, still sharp in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry, should you be back here? Are you lost?”

“I,” Charles starts, dizzy with embarrassment, “I have a... Mr. Treville gave me a- um, Athos-”

“ _ Athos _ ,” Porthos interrupts with a loud call, tipping his head to somewhere in the room Charles can’t see from the doorway, “Athos, you’ve got a friend come to see you.” Porthos’ voice is teasing and his eyes are predatory, like he’s waiting for Charles to make the wrong move.

“Busy,” Athos snaps back, followed by the clink of glass on wood.

“It’s that boy,” Aramis says, sing-song playful. Silence for a moment, more clinking; then Athos turns a corner, holding a half-empty bottle of wine by the neck.

“My apologies. D’Artagnan, isn’t it?”

“Um. Yes, I-”

“Come through.” Charles’ steps are tentative as he crosses the room. Aramis gives him a little wave, more a wiggle of fingers, and holds the joint to Porthos’ lips, laughs quietly.

 

Athos is in a little corner of the room that holds a wet bar, in the process of pouring two cups of wine. His hair is a tousled knot, dark with sweat and hanging in his face. 

“D’Artagnan,” he calls out again, a soft slur in his voice, “come, come, sit. Sit down. Have a drink with me.” D’Artagnan does as he is told and perches on the edge of a vinyl seat in the nook. Athos hands him a cup that probably sees a lot more coffee than wine in it, and he accepts it but doesn’t drink it right away. “Treville told me about you.” Athos’ face is flushed from wine but gaunt with exhaustion, dark around the eyes. He reaches out with his free hand and drops it on Charles’ shoulder. It’s too hot and too heavy, especially for such a slight-looking man. “Damned shame, about your father. Had his records, growing up, you know?” He drinks the cup in one go, starts to pour himself another. “You liked the show. Can you play anything?” Athos isn’t really looking at Charles, but his hand is still firm on his shoulder. Charles stares at Athos’ shoes.

“Guitar. Piano, a little,” forces himself to make eye contact with the man beside him, “I… I’ve never heard music like that. It’s, it’s so- I loved it, it’s amazing,  _ you’re _ amazing, I-” Another flush of shame spreads through his body and he wants to crawl inside his coat and never come out again. Athos gives him that little uptick of a smile. Charles feels like he’s the only person in the room. 

“You’re good at it?”

“Guitar?”

“Or piano. Either.”

“I suppose so.” Athos drinks half his cup and shakes his head like there’s a sour taste in his mouth. 

“It’s a yes or no question. None of that humility nonsense.”

“I… yes. I’m good.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“Charles. Charlie.”

“Charlie D’Artagnan.” He looks at him thoughtfully. “I hope we see each other again, Charlie D’Artagnan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you're wondering, the Inseparables sound Yardbirds-esque, more like the Velvet Underground at their wildest; all while being covered by Iggy and the Stooges.)


	7. I Have To Go Home/You Are Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUNDAY MORNING (DEMO)  
> (UNRELEASED)
> 
> Oliver 'Athos' Delafère: Vocals  
> Charles D'Artagnan: Guitar
> 
> Recorded by C. D'Artagnan

Kings Records bought the warehouse from Garrison Holdings Ltd sometime after the war. It’d been a military supplier which folded in peacetime, and was sold for peanuts. The company spent a summer turning it into a rehearsal space and studio. Aside from the recording booths and soundproofed, rug-strewn practice rooms, it had a little kitchen and a bathroom with a shower that had once served the factory staff. This particular feature of The Garrison is what prompted Treville, who knew that D’Artagnan had come to the city with nothing in his agenda except justice and nothing to speak of at all in his wallet, to let the kid stay there. At least until he got his feet on the ground, or went home, or  _ something _ . 

 

So Charlie slept on couches in the practice room, cleaned up after himself (and everyone else, if Treville was being honest), and generally didn’t get in the way. He became a fixture at the studio, and all the bands at Kings got used to him just being there; he watched them play through the glass, set up their cables, tweaked dials and pushed sliders at the sound desk upon instruction. Within months he was no less a part of The Garrison than the brickwork was. Even Connie- and it was definitely Connie, not Bonnie- warmed to him; she set him up a room in the back that had once been for employee lockers, with a mattress and a little desk with a lamp, and all the storage he could want so long as it fit inside the rows of steel boxes along the side wall. He had a little stipend for all the hours he put in outside of cleaning, and while it wasn’t much, it was enough to live off when the cost of rent wasn’t a concern. 

 

He woke up in his makeshift bedroom, pale sun streaming through the window on the far wall, to the clattering of cases and stands. It was far too early for anyone to show up; not even the producers bothered coming in before ten, and it was hours before that. Charlie rubbed his eyes and sat up on the mattress, kicked the covers off his bare legs. He doubted it was a break-in, purely because he was so used to all the noises the building made, and he’d know if someone had tried to jimmy the front door, or break a window. Still, a vein of nausea crept into his gut. As he crept out barefoot into the studio proper, he picked up a central pillar of a microphone stand, holding it out like a baseball bat or a longsword. He took a deep breath and turned the corner into the rehearsal room, metal pipe tight in his hands, ready to strike the culprit, and-

 

“Athos?” 

“Oh! Fuck me.” Athos took a long step back, clutching the front of his shirt like he was about to have a heart attack. His eyes were still a little too wide. “Sneaky fucking...” He sighed and ran both hands through his hair, steadied his gait. “Morning, D’Artagnan. Put the pole down before you hurt someone, will you?”

“Sorry, Athos. I wasn’t expecting…”

“Company?”

“Something like that.” Charlie put the rod back amongst a pile of stands and wiped his hands on his shorts, looking around a little awkwardly. He folded his arms across his chest, incredibly conscious of his state of undress; wandering around the studio in shorts and socks, hair like a crows’ nest. Athos squinted at him, the light from behind Charlie’s head giving him a coppery-red corona, and hiding most of his blush. (Most, but not all.) “What’re you doing? You’re not usually in ‘til the afternoon.” 

Athos let out a derisive snort.

“Trying a new thing out.”

“Oh?”

“Sobriety.”

“Oh.” Charlie recognised now the pallor of his face, his eyes all the more blue for it. Athos always looked a little rough around the edges, but right now he just looked _plain_ _rough_. “Do you… I can make coffee? I mean, if you want…?”

“Go put a shirt on, I’ll see about coffee.” It was a teasing command, but not unpleasant. Athos almost smiled, even; and then passed by coolly, wandering to the little kitchen. Charlie mumbled a curse at himself and retired to his room, thoroughly embarrassed for having nearly knocked out Athos in little else but his underwear. 

 

Returning in a semblance of dress (yesterday’s jeans and a sweater he’d found in one of the lockers when he was cleaning out his ‘bedroom’), Charlie found Athos sitting on a couch in the studio lounge, legs sprawled out in front of him, mug in his hands. He nodded towards a second cup on the bench in front of him, set apart from the empty glasses, full ashtrays, and piles of magazines. 

“So, um. How long….?”

Athos scratched his chin and looked over at the clock on the wall. 

“Eight hours.”

“Ah.” D’Artagnan cleared his throat and sat down next to Athos on the couch, tipped his head in thanks for the cup. Athos closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, we all have to start somewhere. I suppose.” He shrugged and sipped his coffee, facing the mess on the bench but watching Charlie out of the corner of his eye. “I thought coming here might… keep me distracted.” He bit his lip. “Idle hands, and all that.”

 

“I, uh. I can leave you to it. Should clean up in here, anyway.” This was all a little too much for Charlie, who wasn’t used to this kind of honesty and especially not first thing in the day. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll try not to sneak up on you with a big stick in future.” He tried on his best smile and hoped it didn’t falter. Athos was a difficult man to read.

“You don’t have to go on my account,” Athos murmured, not really looking anywhere; and then, quieter, “I don’t mind the company.” He went to pat Charlie’s knee, but thought better of it, and settled his hand in the gap between them instead, finishing the rest of his coffee in silence. He hadn’t slept since he’d first decided to dry out, and exhaustion was tugging at his limbs, even after his excuse for breakfast. Athos put the empty cup down and and let his head drop against the back of the couch. The sun shone warm through a skylight, softening his weary countenance. The pull of sleep was too hard to resist now; and for a moment Charlie was almost convinced Athos was dead from how little he moved, until he slumped to one side. His head dropped like a stone in Charlie’s lap.

 

“Oh,” was all that Charlie could say out loud, Athos’ nose half-buried in his knee. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When did I get so.... fluffy? Going to have to do something about that.


	8. Passenger on a Death Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DRIVING SONG (DEMO)  
> (KINGS RECORDS '72)
> 
> Oliver 'Athos' Delafère: Lead Vocals and Bass  
> Baron Porthos Vallons: Drums  
> René 'Aramis' Herblay: Lead Guitar and Vocals  
> Charles D'Artagnan: Guitar and Vocals
> 
> Recorded by O. Delafère

It really didn’t have to be that difficult; they just hitched a ride to The Savoy. A change of vans to make room for D’Artagnan and D’Artagnan’s gear, which would be waiting for them at their next tour-stop, meant there was barely room for two people along with the gear in the old one, let alone the four of them. So Athos and Aramis caught a lift with another band heading south, Porthos and D’Artagnan took the van, and they’d meet at the venue. Easy.

 

Except, of course it wasn’t. 

 

Athos sat on a bench outside the venue, letting the breeze twist his hair and blow away his cigarette smoke. Aramis opened the door, telephone receiver still wedged between his ear and his shoulder, stretching the curly cable as far as it would go. 

“We’ve got a problem.”

Athos put out his cigarette under the heel of his shoe.

“Oh, what a nice change,” he mumbled, skulking back into the shade. Aramis closed the door behind them, still speaking into the receiver. 

 

“We’ll have to cancel the show.”

“We  _ can’t _ cancel the show,” replied Athos and Aramis in unison, to The Savoy’s manager, who was spooked by their chorus. 

“Half your band’s missing, and- I don’t know, I guess you could borrow a guitar and do an acoustic-”

“We’re  _ not _ cancelling the show,” Athos snapped, “and they’re  _ not _ missing. Call a tow truck. We’ll pay them, after we get paid. For the show we’re playing.  _ Tonight _ .”

 

Easy. 

 

Except. 

 

Of course.

 

“Oh, for  _ fuck’s sake _ .” 

“ _ Temper _ , Ollie. Use your words.”

“Fuck off.”

Aramis put his hands up defensively. “I’m just  _ saying _ , mouthing off isn’t going to help.”

“Asking politely isn’t working.” Athos folded his arms in contempt. “Look, if it’s going to be that fucking hard to get a mechanic out, can we borrow a pickup truck and get them ourselves? We’ll pay for the fuel, after we get paid, for the sh-”

“I think he gets it, Ollie.”

Athos made a quiet grunt in reply. 

 

They get the pickup truck, at least. The plan is simple: get to the boys. Load the tray up with the gear, one of them sitting with it (Athos, preferably), the other three in the cab. Get back to the venue on time. Play the show, get paid, deal with any potential debts owed after. Easy.

 

Except.

 

Once the keys had been handed over and the driveway cleared, Athos and Aramis were left alone outside the truck. The sun crawled over to high noon, beating down on their heads. 

“ _ You can’t drive _ .” Athos pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to raise his voice.

“Well… I mean… no. No, I can’t. Never learned. I don’t even have a permit, to be honest.”

“Why did you-”

“Ollie-” Aramis backed up against the side of the cab.

“-agree to this!”

“I thought you could drive!” 

“I…” Athos looked up at the sky, then down at his shoes. “Yes, I can drive. Lost my license, though.” He hoped his general state of uselessness prevented him from having to go into further detail. Explaining out loud he’d had too many DUIs, and there’d been too many smashed trees still trimmed in scraps of written-off cars- thankfully only trees, and never another person; although one time he’d swerved to avoid a fox and ended up in a ditch, but he’d been sober then, so it didn’t count, anyway- before he’d even met Aramis wasn’t really something he’d felt like doing there and then. “I’ll drive.”

 

They got a hundred miles or so down the highway before Athos reckoned he saw a patrol car a ways behind them, forcing them to stop until it passed. It wasn’t their vehicle, neither of them should have been behind the wheel anyway, and they definitely couldn’t have afforded arrest, bail, or even a ticket. Athos sank down in the driver’s seat, watching the mirrors, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap. (Any minute now, it’d drive past, they’d wait another five or ten, then keep going.  _ Fetch the boys. Play the show. Get paid. Easy. _ ) Aramis wandered out into the scrub to piss, so they’d have an excuse if anyone asked why they were pulled over, not that there were really any other cars on the road. Fifteen minutes passed without fanfare, and Aramis walked back to the truck. 

“Looks like we’re in the clear.” He leaned through the window on Athos’ side of the cab, arms folded on the sill. Athos cocked his head to one side, looking at Aramis over the rim of his sunglasses. 

“All right.” He scratched under his beard. “We’re not that far off, road’s empty. Fancy a lesson?”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day, you know that?”

“Hm.” Athos’ mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Sorry.”

Aramis reached into the cab and pushed Athos’ glasses back up his nose.

“How about, then, you keep driving, but talk while you do it.”

 

They spent the next ten miles in relative silence, Aramis reclined with his feet up on the dashboard, knees pressed to the door.

“So.” He reached for one of Athos’ cigarettes. “What’s got you all wound up? On the wagon again?”

“More or less.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Ollie.” 

“Less, then; trying.” He reached an arm out, fingers twitching. Aramis obliged him, passing the cigarette over. Athos took a long drag, one hand lazily keeping the wheel steady, and handed it back. 

“We can help you. Wouldn’t even have to ask, you know.”

“Hm.”

“Something else, though, isn’t it.”

“Hm.”

Aramis sighed, exhaling smoke through his nose.

 

“Oliver.”

“ _ What _ , René.”

“We can’t be more than twenty miles off.”

“And?”

“And Charlie’s going to think you’re pissed off at him, you keep acting like this.”

Athos snorted. 

“D’Artagnan knows what I’m like.”

“Hm. I see.”

He put the brakes on, a little too hard. Aramis gets thrown out of his sprawl.

“What’re you fucking getting at, René?” 

“Oh, come on. You know I’m going to be the  _ last  _ person to judge you for- Ollie.  _ Ollie. _ ” 

The door slammed shut, Athos already walking away from the road. Aramis groaned in frustration and followed him, pocketing the keys before hopping out of the cab. “Oliver, please. I’m sorry. Come back.” Athos hadn’t gone far, at least; he stood in the short, sun-baked grass, staring out into nothing, shoulders drawn tight. Aramis came up behind him slowly. “I am, I’m sorry. Reading too much into it, that’s my fault. You know I didn’t mean it badly, though, Ollie. I’m not a hypocrite.”

 

Athos felt Aramis’ eyes on the back of his neck and turned to face him. 

“I know.” He scratched his arm sheepishly. “I know. It’s just... it’s complicated. And he’s just joined the band, and...” 

Aramis pulled Athos into a tight, uncompromising hug; Athos let his whole body hang in his friend’s embrace. He’d barely said a word to D’Artagnan over the last few days. In fairness, he hadn’t spoken much at all. Athos being in a shitty mood came as no surprise to anyone- it was stranger when he was cheerful- but D’Artagnan probably deserved better than that. No, he definitely deserved better. Athos sighed, resigned, and looked up from where he’d slumped against Aramis’ shoulder. 

“I’ve already made a mess of it, honestly,” he mumbled into his shirt. “He’s going to think it’s an obligation, if he doesn’t already.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, what else does it look like? I told him he should join right after we- no, we hadn’t even  _ finished _ fucking, that’s how bad it is. René, I’m fucked.”

Aramis pushed Athos’ hair back out of his face with both hands and gave him a wan smile, still propping up most of the other man with half his body. 

“Charlie’s a smart b- calling him ‘boy’ isn’t making you feel better about this, is it.”

“Nope.”

“Charlie’s a smart  _ man _ , then.”

“Ugh.”

 

They walked the short distance back to the truck quietly, their shadows beginning to stretch. Athos went to walk around to the driver’s side, but the sound of Aramis rattling the keys stopped him. 

“Thought you wanted to give me a lesson.”

“Thought  _ you _ wanted to get back in time.”

Aramis laughed under his breath and stretched his arms up, holding the keys above his head. The mid-afternoon sun warmed his belly where his shirt rode up. Athos smirked and reached for them, only to have Aramis slip out of range. 

“Come on. Give them back. We’ll be late-”  _ snatch, dodge _ \- “René,” skirted away from his grip again. Aramis was teasing him very much on purpose, and Athos was losing his temper. He lunged forward, ready to tackle him to the ground. “Give them  _ back _ -”

Aramis anticipated the movement and pushed back harder, shoving Athos into the side of the truck. Athos swore under his breath, sore and winded and genuinely surprised. Aramis crowded his space, dropping the keys somewhere at their feet; he grabbed Athos with both hands, one in his shirt collar, the other wrapped around his belt at the hip, holding him in place. 

 

“Ollie, listen to me. Charlie  _ adores _ you, but he knows he’s worth more- to all of us- than how good a fuck he is. We know that, too.”

Athos felt his heart sink, like he’d been winded a second time.

“He slept with you?  _ Both _ of you?”

“What? No! That’s not what I meant, don’t be so obtuse.” Aramis butted his forehead gently against Athos’. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you and Charlie, and I won’t push if you don’t want to go into… specifics. But you’ve got to figure this one out, Ollie. You’re more likely to scare him off thinking you don’t care, than make him think he, I don’t know, needs to earn a gold star from you in bed every night.” He stepped back and bent down to pick up the keys. Athos didn’t move an inch. “I don’t think we’d be able to go back to just the three of us very easily.” Aramis pressed the keys into Athos’ hand and rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “He’s everything we didn’t know we needed. You’ve got,” and he squinted down the highway, one hand over his brow, “fifteen miles or so to figure out what that means for you.” 

 

They climbed back into the cab, and Athos slid the key into the ignition but didn’t turn it. The sun shone right in Aramis’ eyes, and he regretted not bringing sunglasses. He opened the glovebox to see if there was a spare pair, and two things fell out: a six-shooter, thankfully unloaded, and a, politely speaking, well loved copy of  _ Hustler _ . Aramis grimaced; Athos barked a laugh. 

“Someone’s got their priorities figured out.”

“Clearly.” Aramis tried to put the artefacts back where they came from, touching as little of either as possible. It was not so much the things themselves that upset him, and considerably more the condition they were in. He shut the glovebox with his foot, and wiped his hand on his jeans, wrinkling his nose. “Honestly, some people have no standards.” 

Athos had an easy smile on his face as he turned the truck over, engine rumbling through the cab. 

“You could always,” and his lip twitched into a sly half-smile, “get a bit of revenge.” He looked over briefly as he pulled back onto the road. “Fifteen miles, that’s what. Five minutes? You could go twice.”

“Fuck off,” Aramis laughed, undoing the fly of his jeans, “I’m too old for that.”

“You’re twenty-eight.”

“And I don’t like to rush.”

“Fourteen and a half miles.”

“Let me get on with it, then.”

Aramis palmed himself through his briefs, not a trace of shame on his face; after all, he was a natural performer Athos kept both hands on the wheel, but one hung low around six, the other staying at ten, knuckles turning white. Aramis sighed quietly through his nose and spat in his hand. He was reluctant to shuck his pants off in the cab- again, standards- but managed to wiggle them down enough to take his cock out, sprawling a little in his seat. 

 

Aramis jacked off in a lazy rhythm; eyes closed to keep the sun out, biting his lip to stifle any noise that could distract his driver. Though he managed to stay quiet, Athos was struggling to keep his attention on the road; he rubbed the crotch of his jeans roughly, hoping the sharp jolt would clear his head, but it just made him ever the more sensitive. He grunted under his breath and forced himself to take the wheel at ten-and-two again.

“Eyes on the road,” Aramis murmured, voice stilted. His loose fist went tighter, faster, and with a quiet curse he canted his hips so he’d come on something other than himself. “I’ll take care of that.” Athos kept his head up, hands fixed on the wheel; Aramis sprawled, cat-like, across the cab’s seat, propping himself up on his elbows. He tied his hair back and laughed under his breath. “Honk if. Well, you know.”

 

Popping open the buttons of Athos’ pants, Aramis licked his lower lip. It’d been quite some time since he’d last given road head in a vehicle he wasn’t familiar with, and, perhaps unfairly to Athos, most of his attention was on making sure he didn’t end up bruised from the wheel. He let out a perfectly wicked, salacious groan, purely to make Athos suffer a few seconds longer, and pulled his cock out of his pants. 

“Remember to honk,” said Aramis cheerfully, and swallowed Athos’ cock right to the back of his throat with artful precision. 

 

(Athos made a noise could possibly have been described as a honk.)

 

Aramis let his hands do the bulk of the work, purely to avoid a concussion, but kept his mouth on Athos without pause, noisy and sloppy and almost egregiously pornographic; he would never let it be said that he didn’t give a good performance, one way or another.

 

“Honk,” gasped Athos, palms sweating, hands slipping off ten-and-two and clinging at eight-and-four. Aramis hummed a question-noise, which made Athos bark a second “honk,” and swat at Aramis’ hair feebly. 

“I meant the horn, you bloody-”

“Can’t,” mumbled Athos, putting his foot on the brake slowly. “Company.  _ Very _ soon.” Aramis wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and kicked open the glovebox.  _ Hustler  _ fell out again, and he dumped it open on Athos’ lap before sitting up slowly. Athos was incredibly unimpressed by the entire tableau, and leaned over the wheel with loose, crossed arms. The truck rolled to a halt. Athos pushed his sunglasses back up, and unrolled his window. 

“Fancy seeing you here!”

“Hello, Porthos.”

 

On the opposite side of the road, the tow-truck rumbled in neutral. 

“I thought you said it wasn’t gonna come.”

“I thought I was telling the truth.” He glared at the driver of the tow-truck; but looking back towards Porthos, he caught D’Artagnan sitting in the middle of the two men, giving Athos a shy smile. Porthos swung out of the tow and went to the back of their tired little van, which had been unhappily scuttled along on a hook for only a few miles and already looked worse for wear.

“If we load everything on yours, we’ll get back faster, yeah? Though now that I say it, what took you so long?”

 

(Piling into the borrowed pick-up made the journey back a little slower and more snug than the way there, but they ended up beating the tow home by an hour, which was an hour spent in setup and soundcheck.) Athos rode in the back of the tray with the gear, but with D’Artagnan as company; the cases were all strapped down, but he’d insisted on doubling up. Athos wondered if Porthos had put him up to it, but said nothing. 

“You could’ve cancelled, you know,” said D’Artagnan, just as Athos was beginning to doze in the late afternoon sun, one foot kicked up on the side of the tray. “Would’ve saved you a lot of money, surely.” He tapped his fingers against the spare tyre bolted to the back of the truck. “Tonight doesn’t have to be my first show.” 

Athos reached over and touched D’Artagnan’s wrist, the heat rising from the black rubber making the hairs on his arm itch; he hoped it said everything he couldn’t, but D’Artagnan just looked concerned. Athos sighed under his breath. 

“It’s worth it.” He swallowed and looked up. “You’re worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after [robotboy's "Little Stranger"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11366844), if you like.


End file.
